


bad at it

by higgsburied



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: M/M, i just wanted hurt/sad zacharie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:22:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/higgsburied/pseuds/higgsburied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Batter isn’t so good with romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bad at it

He has absolutely no idea what he's done wrong, but when he slams the money down on the night stand with arms heavy from sleep Zacharie does nothing but stare with blank eyes. He's stood up, mask snapped back in place even without his pants covering his ass and he's just not blinking. Like he's made of stone. Just frozen in time.

 

And because he's never been good at talking or relationships or much of anything outside of baseball, the first thing the Batter thinks to say is "Is it not enough?"

 

Zacharie at least turns his head to look at him now, but his eyes are still boring holes in the whatever he sees and he doesn't even look like he's breathing. It's so uncomfortable and unnatural for him that the Batter has to try and look anywhere but at this small half-naked man standing at the bedside table like it's his lifeline.

 

It's impossible to tell what he's thinking behind the mask but from the tone of his voice when he all but hisses the words "Get out" the Batter would hazard a guess that he's pretty damn furious.

 

The Batter isn't good at taking directions, and he's naked anyhow, so he just stays where he's laying, trying to adjust his head to the fact that it's morning and he's hungry and - did Zacharie just tell him to leave? "Pardon?"

 

Zacharie balls up the bills in his fist, fingers shaking with how tightly he's gripping them, eyebrows probably knit together in unparalleled anger that the mask only makes look tranquil. And Zacharie takes those strips of paper, and throws them with metal coins back in the Batter's face. "I said get out!" And he turns, storming out of the small and cluttered bedroom he calls his own. He's probably expecting the Batter to follow him.

 

Or at least, that's what he's going on, because he stands in all his nude glory and follows Zacharie out, stunned, completely amazed, utterly flummoxed, when he finds the smaller man pushing the mask up to wipe his cheeks as he sits with eyes turned to the coffee pot. And the Batter, being dense as hell, just stands and watches it, because it's not the kind of thing you see every day. Crying from either one of them.

 

The words that leave his mouth next are still the wrong ones: "Are you crying?"

 

Zacharie's shoulders snap. Despite all the vulnerability in the air, the shaking that can't be undone and unseen, Zacharie's voice is still strong and demanding and "I thought I told you to get out."

 

The Batter stares at his back. At bruises and bitemarks and all the places his fingers touched last night. His skin is scarred in places but it's never really mattered, it's just targets for the Batter's tongue and he jumps at whatever chance he has to fix whatever it is he's done and finds himself elbowed in the chest."Get off of me. Get your money and get out of my apartment."

 

He's not deterred, he's still not leaving, standing up with an unaffected frown to ask "What's wrong?" Because now, he's actually out of other ideas.

 

"I'm not a whore, Batter. If that was all you wanted you should have said from the beginning and saved a lot of time." There's a blank expression, a couple of blinks, confusion. And Zacharie squirms. "What are you looking at?"

 

The Batter puts hands on Zacharie's shoulders, patting them, pressing them softly up his neck, pressing the sides of his head, the mask expression unchanging and covering up what must be a rather irritated face. "Is this not how it's done?"

 

Sighs in agitation. He grips the Batter's wrists tightly, pushing him away. "I believe that depends on the prostitute you're soliciting. But I am not one of them, and I don't want your money. As I have said before, gather your things and leave my apartment."

 

Does it hurt more, he wonders, that he's following his orders now, no longer fighting back, or that he didn't leave the first time he was asked? But he's not gone, not really, because he comes back with black slacks pulled on and a crumpled up piece of paper pressed against Zacharie's chest. "Sucre said there would be three dates. And then I would know what to do."

 

Zacharie would be rolling his eyes if the sarcasm and gesture as a whole wouldn't be lost on the Batter. "And your logical next step was payment?"

 

He frowns, as much as he ever does or can. "It said to bring a gift." 

 

Zacharie's eyes would narrow, again, point permitting. "So you paid me."

 

"I did not pay you. I gifted you money." Serious. Completely serious.

 

Things click. Things click and papers crumble. Zacharie tosses the trash into a bin, wrapping arms around the Batter and pulling him close. He's relieved, even if he hates it, and he laughs when the Batter apologizes with "I guess I'm just bad at this."


End file.
